The Moon Knight of Vengeance
by Neutral-Man
Summary: Somewhere in Essos the mercenary Marc Spector gets an attack of conscious and decides to do his first good deed in a while. This leads to the creation of Moon Knight.
1. Chapter 1

Authors Note: Hello. this is my new story; hope you like it. I have made a few changes to Moon Knights origin, so that he fits in well with the world.

Chapter 1: The ferryman

The desert sun beats down on my brow as a fist collides with my jaw. Half real lights dance across my vision. My head violently rocks to the side. A tooth, trailed by blood, flies out of my opened mouth. A fist, nearly hard as stone, continues its path; barreling across my face. When the fist completes its path I feel vertigo. I vaguely feel sand conforming to the shape of my back as I land on the ground.

I hear wind brushing sand into dunes. I hear excited and entertained hoots and hollers from my former comrades. I smell and taste my own blood. The merciless sun beats my face, and blinds my one open eye.

A shadow looms in front me. My former employer, simply known as Bushman begins to pummel my skull. My head starts to submerge under the sand from the force of fists. The sun fades.

Cool moonlight drenches my cracked face. The light reflected off the murky splotches of dried blood. Sand rubbed against my back as I was being dragged through the desert. Consciousness fades in a lucid ebb and flow. The moon stares down on my broken, spotlighted body. The unforgiving wind peels at my face as it rearranges the dunes.

I glance at my saviors or captors in my lucid spells. There ragged white garb shone in the moonlight. Tarnished with age, disrepair, and active assault. The people were scared, wounded, and bloody. They limped along the way.

My wheezing breath produce a cough. Blood caked phlegm erupts out of my mouth. My one good eye opens as I wake. The wounded people stop, turn around, and rush to my side. They pour water into my mouth, and recite comforting words with a desperate tone in a language that I half understood. My eyes closed as I swiftly returned to unconsciousness.

I continue to drift in and out of consciousness. The wind is gone. Voices echo in the chamber. The floor is cold and hard. I shiver regardless of the blanket. My wheezing breath slows to a strangled stop. My labored heart slows and stops. I am dead.

A light grows in my vision; like light through my eyelids. Suddenly I hear a s- No! No! I refuse to tell you this. That was meant for me, and me alone!

My heart beats and I awaken. The temple is quite as it's occupants rest. The moon is high in the sky. I stand up off the stone floor. The room is constructed of hewn sandstone blocks bricked into walls. Simple pillars hold the flat roof above my head. There is a statue on an alter directly facing me. The ceiling had holes constructed into it to allow moonlight to shine into the chamber. The moon was full; light shined directly onto the statue. The light reflected silver from the cloak upon the idol.

I approach the idol of my god Khonshu. My shoeless feet make no sound as I walk. The room is silent save for the scraping sound of sand on the wind colliding with the outside walls. My hand grasps the cloak upon Khonshu. I quickly remove the cloak and don it in a fluid motion. Dust bursts from the old cloak. The particles sparkle in the light. My god speaks to me. I nod and turn to leave.

I see one of them, my saviors, standing in the doorway. His face wears the expression of shock. I stare into his eyes as he stares at where he guessed mine was. He mumbles out a shaky phrase "But you died!" He fingers at his sword hilt nervously.

I walk towards him with a silent stride. The man starts to walk backwards as he stumbles to draw his curved sword. I stop and say "thank you" then walk past him. The man relaxes as I pass, then realizes something. Then he asks "Where are you going? There is a sandstorm on its way."

"I know." I reply as I stride into the desert, and into the storm

"Arseholes" grumbled Jarick as he stood watch over the camps western flank. Everyone else gets to whore and drink there blood money away, but no Jarick has to be the unlucky son of a bitch who keeps watch.

Jarick covers his face with a damp rag and checks the rope around his waist. The sand storm approaches like a black wall. The ominous wall has a strange pace; the sheer magnitude gives off the illusion of it being slow, but that feeling fades as it gets closer, and the sense of proportions kick in.

The wall envelopes Jarick and the camp in blasts of sand. The mercenary braces himself against the post he is tied to; no sense in getting lost in the storm. He squints as sand pelts his face. Sound out of a few yards becomes impossible to hear. Still every once and a while Jarick will here some hearty laugh from one of his "colleges", or a moan from one of the entertainers they had. Jarick grumbled some more. Something about staying in Westeros.

Visibility became chaotic streaks of sand and the blackness of night. Tiny strips of silver moonlight pierce the haze from time to time. Jarick grumbles are drowned out by the blasting sand. Maybe he said something about the futility of his watch; maybe he muttered some more obscenities concerning his comrades; I don't care.

I at first appeared as a speck of silver in that nights maelstrom of brown and black. As I walked closer he began to notice me. At first he is surprised by my appearance as I walk forward. He doesn't know how to react. Perhaps he thought that he was hallucinating, or perhaps he had somehow fallen asleep. These rationalizations began to die as I break into a sprint towards him.

Jarick then reacts as any watchman should. He starts to holler for help. He tries to inform the rest of the camp of my appearance, but he can't. The storm is so loud; it's winds nearly knock him over as he stands grasping onto a wooden post.

After his cries for help end he turns around to check on me, and my fist collides with the left side of his jaw. His head whips back as he nearly loses consciousness. Jaricks grip loosens around the post. The strong winds topple the stumbling mercenary.

Before Jarick can think I swiftly grab him and drag him to the post. I then begin to slam his head into the post repeatedly. This continues for a small while; I only stop after he stops moving.

I let Jarick's body crumple to the ground where the storm quickly starts to bury him in sand. I then move towards the tents of the camp.

The mercenaries of this camp are little more than brigands at this point. Wave some treasure in front of their noses and all pretense leaves. They take any job as long as there is a payday. I'm glad that I'm no longer a part of the group, but the act of leaving could have been a little less violent; although I can't complain because they made me discover god.

There are about fifty or so of then ; give or take depending on the success of their last raid. Some of the "entertainers" are from a nearby oasis town brothel. Others are peasant prisoners judging by the occasional sob and cries of agony.

I walk into the first tent and see that someone is being "entertained". The man has her over a table. His armor is scattered about, and his sword is on the opposite side the room from him. I walk over to them at a brisk pace. They are to preoccupied to notice me.

I put both my hands on the back of his head and stand to the right of him. Then I bear down. The prostitutes head is caught between the table and the mercenaries skull. The wood table crackles slightly and with a loud crack and she goes limp.

The man is mostly fine; his forehead taking the impact, but he is surprised. With the man's surprise I hit him with an uppercut to the tip of his jaw. The man's mouth slams shut and he slices half of his tongue off with a loud crunch. The man starts to scream before I jab him in the throat; then land a haymaker to his left temple. The man goes down, but he is not entirely unconscious yet so I kick his teeth in with a stomp. Finally, he passes out from the pain.

I look to the woman; she will live, a concussion and a broken nose, but she'll live. I grab the man's sword and leave. The mercenary dies a minute later; he drowned in his own blood.

I watched the sun rise and the night end. The storm was clearing and the sun was blinding. I thought back on all we did recently. All I did with the mercenary group. The murder, the rape, the slavery, the thievery. We all deserved this. To die. I was just the first one to realize this, and I tried to change. To save someone. She died anyway. Her violated corpse is out there still; swallowed by the sand. She is right next to her father; who was forced to watch. We all need to die, and I already did. I left one for this morning.

He should be awake by now. They are all dead. The corpses in the tents are given cool protection from the sun. The others are bloating under the suns rays. The bodies are half buried by the sand.

This person has a strange ritual before he fights. He covers his face with white make-up to give him the visage of a skull. He wears a symbol of death.

I notice that the blood on my sword is covered in sand, the grit seems darker in it. "Who are you" says Bushman. I notice a sliver of nervousness in his voice. He is standing twenty paces behind me. His knuckles are pale as he grips his greatsword tightly.

The ancient cloak I'm wearing is tattered, dirt and bloodstains accompany the holes. "Answer me gods damn it!" bushman barks. I turn around and begin to walk towards him.

"Specter? What the fuck!" says bushman in surprise. I ready my sword. Bushman snarls "Why can't you stay dead" then he charges forward.

Bushman meets me with a downwards diagonal slash from his right side. I respond with a counter slash. Our swords meet with a clang. Small chips are cut into both of our blades. Bushman transitions into a drop thrust; using his larger hand guard and reach to his advantage.

I dodge to my left. Then I rotate my sword into a half-sword grip, and hook his hand guard with my own while he is still extended from his thrust. While doing this I go to kick his knee out, but my angle is off. Bushman pivots while gripping his sword blade with his left hand.

I jump back to avoid falling over. Seeing me jump back Bushman charges forward again to deliver a slash. Me seeing this hop and step forward in a lunge with a counter-swing. Only this time Bushman has overextended and I have lunged forward. I am still unable to hit a killing blow on him due to his greatswords reach compared to my longswords, but my swing is aimed at a different target.

My blade finds purchase, and chops through Bushmans left mid-forearm. Then I shift my grip and deliver an upward slash at his other arm. The blade hacked into Bushman's right arm just below the elbow. This however did not cut deep enough to sever the arm, although it did disable it

Bushman screams as he backpedals away from me. He holds a death grip on his sword, but is unable to lift it. He can only drag it with him. Blood gushes in a rhythm from his stump, and flows from the gash in his right arm.

Again Bushman tries to lift his sword, but his shaky grip fails to do so. I knock him over with a quick kick. He tries to stand up from his position and I reply with a vicious kick to his jaw. I notice as he is lying there that bushman is not wearing his makeup. Perhaps he forgot to put it on when he woke up and discovered my handy work.

I said "It appears that you are without your face paint. That's a problem isn't it? Paint will eventually wash or rub off." I pause here to peer at his face. I then continue "you have always wanted the face of death... Now I will give you what you wanted."

Then I move myself on top of him. Bushman then says " wait... What are you" he sees my sword get closer to his face and an expression of horror contorts his face. " Yo- you don't have to do this! Please gods no! Sto-". I tune him out as I make the first cut. Not that I'm really missing anything; only pleas for mercy and screams of agony. A longsword was not made for this type of precision work; a knife would have been better suited. A few times bushman nearly bucks me off of him, but I make sure to keep him properly pinned. I make a few improper cuts here and there, but through focus, perseverance, and the blessing of Khonshu I succeed in my macabre task.

After I am done, I leave, taking my trophy with me.

The temple was very well hidden. I realize this now as I find it. Only a select few know where it is and rightfully so. The rumored treasures there attract all kinds of people. Some curious pilgrims in search of enlightenment; others are brigands looking for the score of their lives. Neither cases ever see them.

With the pilgrims only those chosen may ever see the temple. No one ever dares tell where the temple is; regardless of whatever tortures are done on them. "What is a man's wrath to that of a god." they would say in there last painful moments. I've regrettably seen it firsthand.

The temple is designed like a pyramid except with steps leading to the top, where an alter stands. Very different from the traditional grave of kings. The surface of the pyramid is a smooth milky white stone which covers the sandstone frame. The altar in contrast is a solid black.

Near the temple there is a monastery where the followers of Khonshu live. Near the monastery there is a stable where the horses live. The monks will go about and collect food donations from the nearby villages'. Every monk on collection duty is trained in evasion too avoid anyone finding the monastery.

This monastery through evasion, bribery, and many battles has remained a secret location, and it will remain so for thousands of years. This is not my place. I approach like a beacon of holy light gliding on the sand. I was not brought here while unconscious, but I remember exactly were it is, and what it is. I remember the small details of it's architecture; every nook and cranny. I remember every story that has happened with the monastery; like a watermelon incident between Father Caius and some initiates from two hundred years ago. These memories float in my skull as the return trip continues.

When I arrive there is an old man waiting for me. His white robe is ragged and stained with sand. His beard is wispy and white. His balding hair lies flat against his skull. He waits for me at the foot of the pyramid.

I stop my march in front of the old man. We stare into each other's eyes for a moment. No Words were needed. I would not have been there if I did not succeed. I toss Bushmans severed face onto the ground. The desert sun had dried the blood from the flesh, so it landed with a dry plop on the sand. I left Bushmans corpse in the desert. His white, exposed skull is tanning in the sun.

With the threat over I take my leave; I'm no longer needed; the threat is dealt with. I take one of the horses with a speckled gray, coat and leave for the nearest oasis town. From there I travel on a caravan to the nearest port city. Then book passage to Westeros. By Khonshu's will I return to my homeland. I took whatever ill gotten gains the now defunct warband had. I will need them.

There is much to be done.

Authors note: And that's a wrap. I made this story because there is a criminal lack of any Moon Knight stories on this site. So I have decided to fix this problem. Plus I've always wanted to do a Game of Thrones story so this fills both needs at the same time. While I am taking a lot of my inspiration from the current Marvel Now series I'm definitely not forgetting what came before it. Sure as I said the story will be different that 616 marvel but it will have similar beats. Also this is moon knight from the perspective of a Westerosi Marc Spector, so expect him to have similar values to a person from Westeros; not someone from modern America.

Have a great day.

Neutral-Man


	2. Chapter 2: Arrival

Beginning note: so after much deliberation I have decided to switch the POV to third person. Especially sense the multiple personalities scenes would have been a nightmare to write in first person

Chapter 2: Arrival

The smell of half rotten produce, exotic spices, and raw sewage filed the hazy air of the Blackwater. Heat poured down from the air veiled sun. Sweating merchants hawked various unfamiliar and domestic products from their ramshackle stalls. Ships flowed in and out of the harbor like air in congested lungs. Dock workers, burly and indentured, rushed to and fro; living in honest work for little pay. Deeper into the city the more average products went. The more rare stuff was sold here. Even rarer things were sold out of sight. An average day on the docks of Kings Landing.

This city has such potential and such terrors. It practically cries out for someone to save it. Marc thought while viewing the city from the ship. The ships name was The Broken Dragon. The Broken Dragon was a modest vessel. Her cargo was fine textiles and glassworks from Essos, and a few other boxes that escape mention, but not the view of very interested collectors. The ship boasted few scars from her travels; a fact that the crew quite enjoyed. It bore the Boratheon flag on its mast.

When the ship finally docked in port Marc bid his goodbyes to the captain and crew, grabbed his things, and left the vessel; quickly vanishing into the fast paced loading and unloading of the docks.

+++++++++++line break++++++++++++++++++

Marc Spector was sitting on a bench, and reading a book. The details of said book are unimportant. His bags were in his room back at the inn. Soon, his bags will be moved to his new residents by some "friends". He mostly needed the book to blend in. He was a little ashamed to admit to himself that it was a miracle that he was literate.

Reading was more of his brothers thing. Randall was a priest of the sept the last time Marc had heard. Randall always did take after fathers religious side. The state of their piety was always a point of resentment for Marc. He saw it as a weakness; always scrounging to live under feudalisms boot. Looking up to the sky; begging for the gods favor while their bodies withered away from starvation. But marc's god demands action, and will if need be take action.

No, Marc was not one for inaction. Which is why he bristled while skimming over the same paragraph for what felt like an hour. He stayed calm; something inside him said to stay calm, and listen, and wait, and learn, so Marc listened.

Marc was in the market place. Filled with constant motion. People enter and exit with rapid pace; always focused on where they need to go, what they need to do, or get. Some meander on with some mundane, but somehow deathly important conversation. Wandering to and fro with gossip and window shopping. The other's, the merchants, always looking for their next sale. Yelling about their wares and gesturing in a constant rhythm; trying to catch that next customer's eye.

The shops were garishly decorated with so many bright and contrasting colors. Aromas of exotic and domestic spices gave a temporary reprieve from the cities stench. The cobblestone streets pale look told of much foot traffic.

He sat there for a few minutes more; ears focused on the crowd. A hundred conversations started, ended, trailed in, and out of the square. Some lasted moments; others would continue long after Marc had found what he needed, but what did he need? Marcs face twitched from his impatience.

Eventually Marc tuned into a few specific conversations.

"My employer would like to remind you of your debt"

"So this guy was just standing over her and-"

"Did you hear about what happened last night? Some woman got torn to shreds. Might have been a bear, or some-"

"You are definitely not a good spy, little bird." The man who just sat down next to Marc said.

"it's a work in progress." Replied Marc

"Then it's a shame I have to cut your practice off; I have a little message to your master that I want you to send." The man continued "Sometimes little birdies get eaten by cats" and with that the man tried to stab Marc in the ribs with the dagger he just drew.

On reflex Marc grabbed the mans wrist, and twisted it while pinching a nerve. The mans grip loosened, so Marc pried the dagger from his grasp. Then plunged the dagger into the mans chest. The man grunted, shuddered, then exhaled his last breath.

Marc stood up and got a good look at the man. The dead mans features were entirely average. Too average. One would never be able to pick him out of a line up. Something about him just made a non-impression on ones mind. The jaw, the mouth, the nose, everything. Even the mans eyes kept a look of calm determination despite his death.

"The hells just happened?" Marc mumbled to himself.

Marc then moved on quickly; best not to be staring at ones murder victim in broad daylight. He disappeared into an alley. A minute passed before someone found the corpse on the bench.

++++++++++++++++line break++++++++++++++++++++++++

The alleyways smelled even worse than the streets. One could feel a curtain of almost physical stench as they entered an alley. Marcs face was crinkled as he walked through it. With the streets at least every once in a while someone would make a half assed effort to clean some of the streets; the important ones. Maybe the rain would occasionally drain some of the filth into the bay. The alleyways were completely different. No one cared. Filth piles into nauseating heaps as the forgotten trash rots. One has trouble discerning a corpse from a live citizen.

Marc saw, in some random heap, a severed hand. It was a left hand; missing it's ring finger. This is where the true crimes happen. In the bowels of a festering city. This is where he will fight, and bleed, and bring his God's pale light. The blinding light of Khonshu will burn away the evil in the night, but now he must prepare for the first night.

With that thought Marc knew that he was right in coming to Kings Landing. Marc then set out to return to his inn. He weaved a path through the tangled heap of roads and alleys, while observing the city that he was going to save. He smiled to himself at the righteous thought.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++line break+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The moon was in the night sky. It was in a waxing crescent; cradling the night sky. Half of the city was sleeping the other half was awake. Guardsmen patrolled the safer streets, and stood watch over their paying customers like paladins at a citadel; none dared to venture into the deeper darkness.

Where debaucheries occurred. The impoverished maidens screams will go unanswered by the cities protectors. They stand by and reason that their wages don't cover dying. The thieves steal what little others have to feed their own. The mercenaries pay didn't cover the brothels fee, so now he takes it out on some unlucky women; his mind is too hazed by alcohol to care who or what it is, as long as he is satisfied.

A gleam reflects from a rooftop. A shadow descends from above. Spikes of steel pierce into the flesh of a rapists face. The metal gauntlet continues its path across the villains face. Bone crunched and caved in, soon followed by the spikes digging gouges as they exit.

The rapist collapsed onto the ground. The left side of his forehead was a bloody crater. Below the crater hung his left eye by the optic nerve. The top half of his eye socket, and a part of his face, was on the ground, next to his victim. His body gave a few twitches, but he was dead. The force of the impact had broken his neck.

Marcs arm throbbed in pain. Even with his gauntlet on that hurt, but the pain was secondary to his mission. The steel of his gauntlet resonated painfully for a few seconds from the blow; it was warped slightly.

The girl was silent. She stared up at him with vacant eyes. Her skin was pale, and drying tears were on her face. Marc wished at that moment that she was struck dumb by his presence; the heroic deed that he had done. His armor shinning in the moonlight. The plates and mail rings reflecting the light of a savior. She was dead. A pool of blood bloomed from her open neck. The dead rapist had a bloodied knife in his hand.

Marc stared at her corpse for a while. Her vacant eyes stared through him; boring into his soul. Her features are so gentile. To think that one such as her would die in such a fashion as this was infuriating to Marc. She was too young to die. Probably wasn't even married yet. She could have had a good life. She should have had a good life.

She could have had a family. A husband that loved her. Some children to cherish. Now she is dead. Some random guy didn't feel like hiring a whore. He wanted to save some money. No one would care. He also decided to "save" her from possibly having his bastard so he slit her throat, and Marc didn't save her in time. That future that she could have had crumbles to dust. Her family will probably never find her, see her again. Marc failed.

He was to late, again. He failed, again. Now this woman is dead just like Marlene. Dead, out their in the desert under some dune. Dead. Forgotten. He wasn't good enough. Marc punched the wall while growling in frustration. Each punch left dents in the wooden beam, and made it shake from his force.

Marc stormed out of the alley, body quaking with rage. He wandered the streets for a few minutes. Looking for the next criminal. He found his criminals. Three of them; it looked like a simple mugging. A fat merchant was caught out after "curfew" by some assholes with falchions and daggers. Marc smiled under his mask.

The merchant tried to give them some of his money, but they wanted it all. Tensions were rising. The merchant had his back against a wall. One mugger to each side and one directly in front of him. The muggers were covered in rags, but they had a killer gleam in their eyes. One could see that the only reason that they haven't gutted the merchant yet was out of some sick joke. The darkness obscured the half rotten teeth in their predatory smiles.

Marc didn't listen to their negotiations and intimidations; all he cared about was what he was about to do to them.

The center mugger went out cold to a gauntlet to the jaw. Marc charged forward toward the right mugger. The right mugger made a wild swing with his falchion. Marc rushed up to the right mugger and grabbed the muggers descending wrist. Marc then palm struck upwards into the muggers elbow while his other hand pulled the muggers wrist downwards. The right muggers arm snapped like a twig while he screamed in pain.

Marc was reminded of the left mugger when a falchion struck his shoulder. Thanks to his plate the sword just slid off leaving a bruise.

. Marc snatched the falchion out of the right muggers grip. The muggers broken arm made it an easy task

The left mugger lunged forward with a stab aimed at Marcs face. Marc quickly parried the stab. Marcs parry didn't stop the muggers forward momentum only redirected it to the left of his head; leading the mugger to overextend himself. The mugger was not very good at sword fighting Marc noticed. Anyone with at least some kind of grasp on the fundamentals would not have overextended themselves in such a way. Marc reminds himself that not every criminal will be a sword master as his stolen blade slices into the muggers neck.

The blade hacks most of the way through the criminals neck, but gets stuck in the last bit of tendons and ligaments on the way through. The force of the blow toppled the muggers mostly severed head. Blood shot out of the stump like a geyser. The body crumples to the ground with the loose head flopping around. The criminals face twitched and moved before freezing.

With the left mugger dead, marc turned his attention back to the right one. The last standing criminal, like any sane person, turned and ran.

Marc seeing this threw his stolen falchion at the criminal. The falchion embedded itself into the muggers back; between the shoulder blades. The muggers legs went limp, and he flung forward, arms flailing, to the ground.

Marc pounces on the fallen mugger, pulling his sword from the criminals back, then ending the mugger by splitting the back of the criminals head open with his sword.

The carnage was over. Marcs mind snapped to a calmer state. He could feel his right hand throbbing now. It still hurt from when he crushed that rapists head. He was breathing heavily. He was still crouched over his latest kill, so he stood up. Marc dropped the muggers falchion, and noticed that his right hand was shaking.

Marc turned to the merchant that he had just saved. The merchant had gotten sprayed a little when Marc partially decapitated one of the muggers, but otherwise didn't look too roughed up. His face held a strange surprised expression. Like he was still deciding whether to be pleasantly or unpleasantly surprised. Marc on the other hand was covered in blood. The blood contrasted heavily with his white garb. Every drop of blood was seen on his cloak.

Marc and the merchant shared glances with each other and the freshly made corpses. Marc then broke the silence by saying "have a nice night." The merchant just turned and quickly walked away hoping that he was just having a strange dream, and to lay off the shellfish.

Marc just got back to work. Pulling his knife out he crouched over the unconscious mugger. He briefly reflected on how some people could be so ungrateful sometimes as he jammed the knife into the muggers heart. The unconscious mugger shuttered, exhaled, and then died.

The night was still young so Marc cleaned his knife off before sheathing it. Then he resumed his patrol

It wasn't long before Marc heard a distant cry for help. Under his mask Marc smiled again; his first night was shaping up to be an eventful one.

[Author's note]

And that's a wrap. Sorry for taking so long I was working on two other stories simultaneously with this one. One of the other ones is almost done so you should see it soon. Anyway if you're wondering why Marc is so violent in this story. Well he is pretty violent in just about every incarnation of him, but this is Westeros, it's pretty fucking violent. Plus this Marc was raised in Westeros. He doesn't hold many qualms about murder.

See you again soon

, Neutral-Man.


End file.
